


when i got into the accident (the sight that flashed before me was your face)

by vivamusmealesbia



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 1965, 1966, 1969, Angst, M/M, enjoy this emotional nonsense, it's implied - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 04:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28700655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivamusmealesbia/pseuds/vivamusmealesbia
Summary: And do you miss the rogueThat coaxed you into paradise and left you there?-coney island by Taylor Swift & The NationalTwo motor accidents. 1966 and 1969.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	when i got into the accident (the sight that flashed before me was your face)

**Author's Note:**

> title is from the same song as the summary. taylor swift lyrics about car crashes are actually something that can be so personal...

John expected Brian to go ballistic—he didn’t, which was good of him, or further evidence of their increasingly unstoppable world domination. The girls might weep for their beloved Paulie’s incisors, and he’d look dodgy in their next few photoshoots, but the records would still sell. Perhaps it’d even catch on, be the next Beatle wigs. Blokes all over London tripping over their feet and crashing cars for their own devilish Paul McCartney grin. John had a good laugh about this when Paul told him over the phone— _Hello, how was your Christmas, er I’ve had a bit of an accident_ —and George and Ringo had a good laugh when he mentioned it to them, and even Brian, dutifully informed by Paul, had managed an acknowledgement of the ridiculousness of the whole thing. No, see, it really wasn’t Brian that was the problem at all. 

\--

When John next saw Paul, it was early January, and John had been feeling the holiday season festering for quite longer than he liked. A general ambivalence for Christmas had taken a downward turn into bitterness as the corners of Weybridge pressed down on him. It was nothing new, except something about all the rosy cheeks and good cheer brought certain expectations with them. John could buy Julian and Cynthia every gift under the sun but couldn’t be the perfect father or the perfect husband. He couldn’t even get out of bed before noon most days. 

Despite the muddled expectations, when Julian unwrapped a train set with a delighted shriek and Cynthia smiled softly at the cost-more-than-your-rent jewelry, it uncurled something warm within him, even if it had been the housekeeper who had actually bought everything. But that warmth started to peter out around the dregs of December. John got tired of listening to Julian’s trains and tired of listening to his own head and it was Business As Usual for the ever-frigid Lennon household. 

They had missed each other on New Year’s, Paul electing to grace some EMI toff’s presence over whatever party he and Cynthia ended up at. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, or even a rarity now that Paul had become the wonder boy of London, for them to end up at different parties on special occasions or spend New Year’s apart, but it always felt like bad luck to John. When his head got big—what’s 1966 without Lennon-McCartney? After a year spent breaking their own records, being knighted like war heroes rather than good-for-nothing rock n’ rollers, making London bloody _swing_ , it seemed like the new year wouldn’t dare dawn without their joint blessing. When his head got small—London seemed to be swinging just fine with John rotting in the suburbs. Even Paul all bloodied and roughed up made a better society prince than him, growing fatter and older by the minute on the outskirts of the scene he had started. 

All of this to say that John had a good laugh on the phone with Paul, and then he had spent a prickly two weeks thinking about how charming of a Christmas Paul was probably having, about how the moon must have looked to make Paul dart his eyes away from the road and how John was probably too busy getting high in his attic to have seen it, about Paul’s perfect front tooth piercing his perfect upper lip, and about the blood in Paul’s mouth. 

They were doing overdubs for the Shea Stadium performance—it was John’s kind of day in the studio, fast and raw, one-and-done, the kind of live performances they wish they could have. For all the bullshit things EMI dragged them in the studio to do, at least this one was getting him out of the house, so John was there early. Or well, John was there reasonably on time. The weather was still unforgiving, bitter English wind and the mutterings of a storm on the horizon, and Paul arrived at the studio last. He was swathed in a new, rather expensive looking scarf— _gift from Jane? No, too impersonal. Gift from Jane’s mother?_ —the bottom half of his face hidden as he walked in, ready to work as always. 

It was Brian who paled first, when Paul unraveled himself, but it was John’s face who visibly fell. The truth is Paul looked fucking awful. His face was puffy, no longer a fresh wound but only half-way to healing, stuck in fleshy limbo. There were stitches above his signature brows, and as Paul hung his coat up George called out from where he sat with his guitar, “Hey Frankenstein, decided to join the living?” 

“ ‘Fraid so. Got tired of the underworld y’see, turns out the dead are dead boring.” 

He waved to George Martin, who, ever the professional, didn’t comment on the state of the resident musical genius’s face. John wanted to do something, make Paul turn his swollen face his direction, say something witty like George, but it stuck uncomfortably at the back of his throat. He opened his mouth and closed it suddenly, coughing to pass it off. He thought of Paul lying on the road, blood trickling down his neck, his pale face approaching destruction, the moon sitting in the sky, indifferent. Paul turned his way anyway. 

“I don’t want to hear a word out of you, Lennon. It’s a bleedin’ miracle you managed to get your license at all.” Good natured. And so like Paul, to be reading his mind and still come up cold. Cold and getting colder. 

“Sorry, it slipped my mind that Mister-three-speeding-tickets was recognized by the Queen for services to the road. Not the only thing that slipped, it seems…” 

Paul’s familiar playful grin, turned macabre. 

“Right, well then that’ll be _Sir_ -three-speeding-tickets to you.” 

“Of course, of course, Your Pothole-iness, my simple mistake.” 

_There you go, John. Nothing to be worried about. Your Paul is still unscathed underneath all this mess._ He lets Brian do the necessary fawning. 

“Paul, you will be alright for George’s wedding later this month? There’s sure to be press no matter what measures we take…oh, and we’ll have to get your tooth fixed. God, Paul, are you quite sure you’re alright? Have you seen a proper doctor and all?” 

“No need to worry, Bri, friend of my cousin’s sewed me up nice and tight.” 

“Oh dear…any scarring?” 

“Just on my lip, but—” 

“I’d leave it if I were you. It’s a new angle to sell. Paul the dangerous risktaker, the dashing rogue.” John hears himself quip, sees Paul look at him unamused, part of the jest, part of the jest. He feels a few feet left of his body, still learning to put sentences together. For once he’d just wish they’d get to work. He’s lucky, Brian finishes fussing and they begin to move through the set list. 

His fingers run through his parts mechanically. They’re old songs, summer releases, not quite suitable for the drudgery currently whirling outside the studio. John thinks of their neon American summer, of Paul sunning himself contentedly like a cat, poolside at some LA mansion. He manages to distract himself with this vision quite successfully until it’s time for him and Paul to lay down the vocal tracks. 

_Ticket to Ride_ , and the two of them wrapped around a mic, voices wrapped around each other, Paul as sweet as ever. Despite. From across the microphone, intimate, John can clearly see Paul’s chipped tooth. The rest of his face would heal, but not that. A memento of something sharp, something fractured, part of a whole, and only natural to wonder how it might feel to drag one’s tongue against it… 

“Lucky the crash didn’t damage those lovely vocal chords.” 

“Insured for millions, aren’t they, Eppy?” Paul shouted up to the control booth, grinning. John’s stomach lurched. Something about his mouth, swollen red and purple, colored by the shit studio lights, made him seem like an old oil painting, melting away in some dusty old hall. In need of restoration. In a brief flash John sees himself at 19 again, a real painter, in charge of making Paul’s image, molding him into something beautiful and _cool_ , pushing and pulling. _Slick your hair back, wear your jeans tighter, make it leather leather leather. Rough yourself up a bit_. Well, this was a bit much. 

\--

They finish for the day with George Martin pleading for a new version of _Twist and Shout_ , and doesn’t that just take him back. It was a shit winter day like this one, but there’s something to be said for being young and on the verge of something big. It’s a moot point, the session ends with no time left and Martin decides it’s not worth it. Selfishly, John is glad. He does not have a 22-year-old inside himself today, and he’d hate to break out something pathetic. It’s been a good day, if you closed your eyes and just listened to the music. It’s been a good day, and he doesn’t want to go home and listen to the deafening silence of his house, and he wants to figure out this Paul thing. He wants to get a better look. So, when they file out, he engages Paul in some inane conversation about a new group he heard on the radio last week, and before either of them have noticed, he’s walked Paul all the way to his front door. Paul unlocks and John follows. 

“Jane out?” 

“Most likely.” 

John hums in assent as Paul pokes around his kitchen. He puts the kettle on and nearly drops a teacup. It’s typical Paul absentmindedness, and he catches it with a finger on the handle before it shatters, but John nearly jumps out of his skin. Paul whips his head around and quirks an eyebrow, setting the cup back on the counter. 

“Jumpy?” 

John doesn’t respond, taking off his jacket for something to do. Paul busies himself with the tea and John leans against the doorway and watches the back of his head, watches his fingers tapping lightly on the side of the cup, effusive, brilliant. 

“I was almost worried the old Lennon curse had gotten you.” 

“Hmm?” Paul doesn’t turn around, but his tapping stutters for a moment. 

“Ah, y’know the old blight on the male line. Not that the women are spared either, I suppose.” 

The tapping stops altogether. 

“John?”

“They get close to me and start dropping like flies.” 

Paul turns over his shoulder, half-bites his lip in thought before remembering its tender state. The kettle starts whistling and he takes the opportunity immediately, turning to take it off the stove. John thinks he could get used to talking to the back of Paul’s head. Makes things a lot easier sometimes. 

He pours smoothly, intensely focused on his menial task in a way that was just so _Paul_. Crisis-avoidant to a fault. Typical that Paul was the one with a medical emergency and John was the one with the crisis. When he turned around and handed John his cup, his face was schooled calm. 

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about that. Still kicking, aren’t I?” 

Isn’t he. 

John shrugs, sips his tea. They sit in silence for a bit, not uncomfortable, but not casual either. John keeps his eye on his tea for a moment, silently hopes Paul will forgive him, or at least not mention it, and turns his eyes up to look at Paul for the next few minutes. A better look. Paul pretends not to notice. 

In a way, it was like seeing him after a fight in Hamburg for the first time. John felt some responsibility for him, as if it was his contagious madness that had made him this way instead of Paul’s unique variety of daring. At the same time there was a kind of sick pride. This was Paul fucking up, perfect Paul, with his magazine-cover lips ripped open. It was stupid, lackadaisical, _You-should’ve-seen-the-other-guy_ , as if the road itself was creaming its pants to get its hands on the Cute Beatle. Well, he wasn’t very cute anymore. Someone had taken a sledgehammer to all that marble. Fitting that it took the moon to distract him, torn between the earth and sky, and at the same time—god you bloody fool, the _moon_? It’s not like it’s a one-night-only attraction. 

“Must’ve been some moon.” 

“It was though! I mean the biggest I’ve ever _seen_ , really, and—” 

“Ah, all worth it then? Hope it inspired you at least, could get a B-side out of this.” 

Paul’s face twists for a moment, and then goes back to safe neutral. 

“Wouldn’t say worth it.” 

“Aw, don’t worry Paulie, I’m sure the birds’ll still put out while you look like Quasimodo. Our fans are very loyal you know…” 

His face twists again, this time only half serious. 

“Come off it. I’ll be fine in a week.” 

“What were you doing riding around alone in the dark for anyway?” 

Paul looks apprehensive, almost embarrassed. John misreads it, laughs a bit. 

“Oh I see, having a “laugh,” were we?” 

“No, er, I was with Tara actually. Although a “laugh” might’ve been involved…” 

To be fair, John didn’t yell at Paul. He wasn’t even half as nasty as he could’ve been. Paul chattered on, not averting his eyes but not keeping them still either. His pupils danced around John’s face so John couldn’t seize him one of his famous glares, as he explained how Tara had a free afternoon and decided to visit Paul up in Liverpool, they had rented some motorbikes, so on and so forth. John was just glad Paul had the decency to be embarrassed. 

“Introducing him to the rellys! That’s big, Paul. Didn’t realize you two were so cozy already. What did dear old dad think of him? A shame, your cracked face’s ruined all the family photos.” 

Paul ignores the jibe, said lightly but with a barb at the center that both of them know is there. They could tease it out tonight, but enough blood’s been shed. He gets a funny look on his face. 

“Well, actually…”

John tightens with urgency, unprepared for the sudden seriousness. 

“Well, _what?_ ” 

Paul swallows the last of his tea and wordlessly heads back to the front hall. John hears him ruffling through his coat and feels his heart jump. He doesn’t even know why. It doesn’t matter that Tara visited Paul. Paul’s dad’s never liked John, and besides, Tara’s a nice bloke. Tara’s a nice bloke. Tara’s—

“Here,” Paul says, and hands him a small piece of paper. 

It’s Paul’s photo, stark black and white. His eyes are looking artfully off somewhere to the right, above him, as if recreating his glance up at the moon. It’s brutal, high contrast, his mass of black hair off-setting deadly pale. His lip is a mess, a scar crossing his mouth. He’s bruised, though you can’t see it. It’s the kind of photograph you hang in a private, high society gallery, something too grotesque to look at often, something too inscrutable for the general public. He can just picture them, Tara coolly concerned, not yet acquainted with the Paul beneath the veneer. Paul could delight in viciousness too, savor the artifice in pain. Turn an accident into something, well, something else. He sees Paul on the doorstep of his cousin’s house, bloody, gleeful, _mad_. Begging for a photo, the old narcissist. John didn’t blame him. He looked beautiful in it really. Like a Byronic hero, something that gets more attractive the more ruined it is. He looked young, human, and yet like he had snatched a moment out of history. John didn’t have the slightest clue what to say in response. Paul must know, the effect he has, some fraction of it at least. He’s kept this photo, he had it taken in the first place. He must know. 

“Jesus, Paul.” 

Paul smirks. 

He knows. John looks up from the photograph and meets Paul’s eyes. 

“So you weren’t wrong, about ruining family snapshots. My cousin was worried sick.” 

“I don’t blame her. Right scary.” 

“Really?” 

“Well, I-I don’t…There’s more to it than I…It’s a very interesting photo. Tara take it?” 

Paul snorts at that. He gets up, takes their cups to the sink. Leaves the photograph sitting on the table. 

“Hardly. I thought he might faint.” 

“Lots of blood then?” 

It was reassuring, of course, to know that offbeat bloodlust existed in Paul too. John might feel like a freak, but he was a freak in freak’s company. 

“Nothing unmanageable.” 

\--

Paul’s face heals just fine, of course, and in time for George’s wedding to boot. John doesn’t make it, on vacation with Cyn, Ringo, and Mo. Somewhere warm. He thinks of Paul’s broken tooth the whole flight long. Paul doesn’t get it fixed for nearly a year.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading :) no guarantee when the second part will be up but i'll do my best. here's a link to the photo they're talking about: https://www.beatlesbible.com/1965/12/26/paul-mccartney-moped-accident-liverpool/


End file.
